


Yellow Light

by herekdales



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Gen, Rambling, Stiles-centric, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herekdales/pseuds/herekdales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like walking up the stairs in the dark, thinking there's one extra step. Your foot falls through the air and the darkness, and for one sickening moment everything around you is falling until you hit the ground and try to readjust to a new surrounding.</p><p>We are all going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsian/gifts), [because she always encourages me to keep writing](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=because+she+always+encourages+me+to+keep+writing).



> Quick Stiles-centric piece. Will possibly progress into a multi-chaptered fic complete with relationships, but for now, just this. Quote in summary are the last words said by William McKinley. *EDITED*

Stiles was afraid of death; the very idea of it. The thought that every living thing on this entire planet would at some point be gone, like it had never been there in the first place. He presumed it had started when his mom died, or at least that’s what his therapist had established. He said these kinds of things had a trigger, and there was nothing to trigger a fear of death more than losing a parent.

It’s funny, Stiles thinks, that how at seventeen years old he’s seen more life or death situations than an average person would see in their entire lifetime, but this did nothing to make the anxiety better or worse. If anything he dealt with it all surprisingly well, until he was behind the closed door of his bedroom and fell to the floor in a crumpled mess where he’d wake in the morning stiff and aching. If Scott noticed that he’d skipped his morning shower, the smell of dried tears and fear all over him, he never said a word. He didn’t know what had managed to get him out of the danger again and again, but he was thankful for it.

He’d noticed that it wasn’t so much the thought of dying that scared him anymore. No, now it was the thought that every day of this new life he’d been thrown into, he woke up without any idea if this was or wasn’t his end. He hoped he had a good long life ahead of him, but with all that was going on in his life right now, he couldn’t even be 50% sure of that. He’d promised his mother, just before she’d passed away, that he would live his life to the fullest, take advantage of every opportunity. He felt a guilty stab every time he thought about it. He knew what she’d be thinking if she could see him now, chasing round after a bunch of reckless werewolves, throwing himself into the path of constant danger; how long would it be until he was the kid lying bloody and lifeless in a ditch somewhere? How would it happen? _When_ would it happen? He could find himself escaping again and again from the danger, but it was coming for him either way.

He felt silly sometimes, thinking this way. Rationally, he knew that he shouldn’t be afraid of what happens to everything; nothing escapes it and worrying about it isn’t going to change that fact. But this is what Stiles finds himself trying to explain at his sessions, in the rare occasions that he is willing to talk (a rare occasion in itself that Stiles would be quiet). It’s different for everyone. You are you, and you feel your emotions. You feel your fear; you are the one that feels the anxiety bearing down on you day after day. You are the one that feels the irrational terror of realization when you start thinking too hard, and you are the one with these thoughts constantly running through your head with nowhere to escape and nowhere to run. He knows that everyone experiences some fear of death; it’s human nature to want to survive. Stiles just can’t ignore it, no matter how he tries to look at it.

He’s not even entirely sure what scares him so much. Every occasion in which he’s been asked that question he’s not been able to come up with a legitimate and sensible answer. Stiles wasn’t religious. Never had been. He wasn’t bought up to be and he never felt the need to put his faith in something that couldn’t be put in solid evidence in front of him. Even when his mom got sick he didn’t pray. Not really. There’d been times when he’s sat by her bedside, eyes fixed firmly on the rise and fall of her chest just to know she was still breathing - still there with him -  when he’d drop his head in his hands with a ‘please, just let her live’ whispered to nothing but the dull repetitive noise of hospital machines.

He couldn’t find the will or the faith to try or care after that. He figured that if some sort of God existed, he didn’t deserve the devotion and praise when all he’d given to Stiles was a bottomless pit inside his chest the day his mother had been taken away from him. A hole that was so big it could never be repaired. He thinks, sometimes, that maybe it’s _that_ which scares him; that not believing in God means no belief in a life after death. No Heaven, no Hell, no seeing his mom again, and no one looking over him as he lives out the rest of his life. Sometimes these thoughts made him sick, sometimes they make him glad. Not having much time with her was devastating, but infinity of being ‘somewhere else’ scares and devastates him just as much.

His brain muddled and his chest ached whenever he thought too deeply into it all. It was always the same feeling. An ice cold stab through his heart, his insides dropping, terror constricting his chest, squeezing and squeezing until he couldn’t breathe and his hands went numb. Panic attacks. He started getting them when his mom died. He’s pretty sure he will never forget the first time he had one. He was dying, he was sure of it. His heart hammered too hard, lungs too small for air, throat too tight, hands, arms, legs, all numb and heavy, violent shakes wracking his body, ice cold sweat beading all over his skin. It took him three days to recover from it, and he dreaded the next one almost instantaneously.

The panic attacks and anxiety had varied over the years. Sometimes it was mild, lingering underneath the surface, but not the foremost thought in Stiles’ mind. Other times it was so strong and so intense that Stiles found it a chore to live. Every task he completed day to day, even as easy as getting out of bed or taking a shower, was a possible trigger to a panic attack. The milder times were nice. Death wasn’t in the forefront of his mind 24/7, well, neither was anything else really what with his ADD to fix that. In these times Stiles could say he enjoyed his life. Things were easy, living was easy. The harder times were what he always dreaded. He knew they were coming and he tried to accept them when they did. Except, you can never really be prepared to face anxiety. You can never be ready for it no matter how much you’ve been expecting it.

Stiles knows when he’s rolling back down the slope of despair. It’s just that in his mind: a downward slope with no visible ending. He’s aware of it, he thinks rationally about it, yet he still finds himself slipping and falling faster and faster until suddenly he’s gasping on the floor, tearing at his shirt as if it’s too tight around his chest, cutting off the air and starving his body of oxygen. Killing him, drowning him, a prisoner of his own mind as he tries desperately to dig himself out of the nightmares he’s living in. Fear has a firm on him and no matter how hard he shakes, he can’t get free. One of the worst things about the anxiety being in full force is it brings with it a fresh pit of depression for Stiles to wallow in. He’s susceptible to it anyway; a family history of it, his diagnosis of ADD from such an early age. The depression too he expected, but like the anxiety, he could never be entirely ready for it.

Stiles didn’t like medication. Not _that_ sort anyway. His Adderall was different. It kept him grounded. Lessened what could be too many anxious thoughts buzzing around his head, driving him so fucking crazy that sometimes he thought he’d spontaneously combust. He had pills before, took them every morning with his breakfast glass of juice. His dad used to call them ‘happy pills’, but eleven-year-old Stiles neither appreciated the humor, nor felt remotely happy. He supposed they had kept him going at least. That was the first and last year he’d accepted to take them. It had been the lowest point for him, a few months into getting used to it being him and his dad, and since then he wasn’t sure if any other low had really compared.

He’d been pretty alone back then, by his own fault of course. He pushed his dad away, pushed Scott away, pushed _everyone_ away. All he’d wanted was his mom and she was gone and not coming back. It had laid it all out for him plain and simple. People die, people you love leave you, and it’s going to happen over and over again. Facing the absolute reality of death and it’s repercussions at 10 years old was life changing. So he pushed them away. He figured that if he stopped trying to care about people, then he didn’t have to feel this pain again when someone else was taken from him. He didn’t see how he’d broken his dad’s already shattered heart. Didn’t see the sadness etching new lines into his too-young face and grey threading through his hair. Never saw the shining tears falling silently from his eyes as he stared unseeing at the television set, night after night that he skipped out on going to work. He made the choice to not see. Chose not to care. Ended up caring even less for himself.

At the time, Stiles had resented his dad for making him see a therapist, but the 42lb drop in weight, one sleepless night after another, not talking, not moving, not living, it was too much for the Sheriff to watch his son go through. Stiles knew now that he’s done the best he could – the best thing for Stiles. He’d just lost his wife and now he had to watch his only son deteriorate. It took time, but Stiles began to care, began to accept help, and began to help himself. The bond with his dad has been shaken visibly, but it repaired, mended, became stronger than ever, and the look of happiness on his dad’s face when he’d given him his first genuine smile in a year was enough to make him cry into his dad’s shoulder for the next four hours, not even able to get an apology past his lips.

It had taken a while for things to go back to normal with Scott, but that was his own fault. How could he face that? How could he go back and beg his best friend to forgive him for pushing him away? But he cared about Scott so much - more than anyone else outside of his family. Scott had been there every step of the way, before and after, and all the times between. Stiles knew he would never forgive himself if he let all that go for the sake of being afraid. He didn’t want to live his life being scared. It’s just that sometimes he had no choice. He’d walked hesitantly up to Scott’s front door – after turning around and back around 8 times – and knocked gently, like he hoped it wouldn’t be heard. Melissa opened the door, gave him a smile and shouted up to Scott, who bounded down the stairs with an enormous grin and dragged Stiles to his room yelling something about Halo 2.

Distraction. That was his best defense now. It had gotten easier with recent events, as could be assumed when you find out there’s a whole other world out there that you never even knew existed. But it was the nights, the times when he was alone with only his thoughts for company. He would think, and think some more, and then think too much, scaring himself stupid along the way, slipping into a restless sleep and waking more exhausted than he’d been before he’d gone to bed. Scott frequently chastised him for taking a little too much Adderall, but how could he explain to a happy, optimistic Scott that he was too afraid to sleep because he was too afraid of not waking up? It felt ridiculous to explain, so he didn’t.

He was getting by. Slightly above average grades, when he could fine the focus. A place on the lacrosse team, even if he did spend most of the time with his ass planted firmly on the bench. His relationship with his dad was still strong, but he knew he’d been pushing it. He could feel the tension between them, but without spilling everything, he couldn’t fix it, and as much as he hated to lie, he couldn’t do it to his dad to tell him. Not after everything that had happened to them already. He thought that there may be a time when he could tell him the truth, but neither of them was ready for it and Stiles didn’t know if he could face even the idea of losing his dad too.

This hidden life they had been pushed into kept him busy for any time that he had free, and sometimes even took up time he couldn’t really afford to spare. He knew his grades had been slipping and he was trying his best to keep up, but werewolf emergencies seemed to be the forefront of his problems lately. It was difficult, yes, but Stiles found himself appreciating how much it took his mind off other things. He found it ridiculous that he could be around this much danger, yet feel the most alive he’d ever felt in his entire life.

It was like his own personal drug. It kept him going, kept him strong, fuck, sometimes he even felt like he enjoyed it. The thrill, the threat, the excitement. Feeling that alive, he almost felt blind to the danger. He knew Scott didn’t really understand his passion for it, didn’t get why Stiles would go out of his way to do anything he could to be involved in the action, but Stiles knew that Scott just got it in a way he could never really explain. He didn’t even need to. It was true that Scott sometimes lacked common sense, but he wasn’t stupid. Not in the slightest. His deep emotional connection with people in what made Stiles so attached to him in the first place. Secretly, before all this werewolf business, he liked to think that Scott was some sort of superhero. Always there for him, always picking him up when he was down, always _getting it._ To the little scared Stiles inside, he still was a superhero, but Stiles no longer idolized his best friend, just loved him. So, Scott accepted that Stiles would always be by his side, and he never questioned it, and Stiles thought he appreciated that more than anything else.

The deeper into this shit they found themselves the more alive Stiles felt. The fear, the anxiety, the depression, it was all still there, but it was easier to pretend it wasn’t. It was easier to lie and easier to say he was fine, because was that really a lie anymore? He _did_ feel fine – to an extent – just as long as he kept this up. He didn’t think he could ever leave this new life behind now. Didn’t know if he could even survive without it. Nothing had ever felt as real as the glowing eyes, the claws, the teeth, the growls of the wolves he surrounded himself with, and he was sure that nothing ever would.

Stiles remembers when he’d had the chance to make it official. To ensure that he’d never be able to leave this life even if he’d had a change of heart. Peter’s teeth so close to piercing his skin that he could almost feel the infection spreading through his body, him hesitating just a little too long on his answer. God, he’d wanted it. Wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, aside from having his mother back. He just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sign on the dotted line of a life contracted to mortal danger and constant battles. Couldn’t do it to his mother, to what remained of her spirit coursing through his veins. He’d rationalized his urge to accept, putting it down to simply wanting to belong. He knew he wasn’t safe as a human in a wolf pack, but would he really be any safer having the same power and being shoved right into the thick of it, no one there to protect him anymore because they assume he wouldn’t need the help?

Saying no was formidable, but he couldn’t see enough positive points to say any different. There was also the deep running fear engraved into every element of his being that he just felt so difficult to shake off. But Stiles had learned that he was good at pretending, a pro in fact, and that was okay. Maybe it would get easier, maybe it would get harder, but he knew what he had and he knew what he couldn’t leave behind. It wasn’t just Scott anymore; there was Allison, who came with Scott and stayed with true friendship, Isaac, who Stiles could maybe get used to, Lydia, who had become more of a friend to Stiles that he ever would have dreamed. Even Derek. It would have been hard to admit before, but that felt like a long time ago now. So much had happened, to all of them, and between those two alone. It was difficult to forget when someone risks their own life for yours multiple times despite giving you nothing but hate vibes, and even more difficult to forget that you have done the same for them. He didn’t want to say it, for no other reason than his pride, but he was warming up to the whole lot of them and letting them in, trusting them, wasn’t so much of a scary concept any longer.

 Stiles felt like he wasn’t exactly much help to their group, but sometimes he could provide things the others could not, and that was enough for him – for now. He promised his mother he would make something of himself, and he was starting to feel like he was on the right path. Maybe it wasn’t something she’d have chosen or wanted for him, but it made him happy. There was nothing Stiles was surer about than his future and his absolute desperation to have one. He was young; a whole library full of issues, but Stiles had a found another place to belong. He had something to make him feel alive. That endless pit of darkness and misery seeming all that bit brighter the more he thought about it. It would never heal, he knew that, but the warmth he felt was so different from the icy grip he’d been in all those years it almost scalded him. Stiles finally felt at home, comfortable, content. The boy that ran with wolves.


End file.
